


Sweet Dreams

by madamerenard



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4879231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamerenard/pseuds/madamerenard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He loves her. He loves her so much that it terrifies him, because he shouldn’t. It’s wrong, it’s bad, but he can’t remember why and he doesn’t care. The Machine is his child, his daughter in wires and code, and he loves her to pieces. Post-YHWH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams

Finch strides behind Root and Reese, clutching the briefcase in his hand. His face is grim and furious as agents descend on them; he’d rather be full of lead than let Decima have The Machine.

The unfaltering blue light on the briefcase stares up at him. His weakened, frail child is resting within. She deserves the repose. He hopes she sleeps peacefully, he hopes she sleeps well. He wishes her sweet dreams.

Can machines dream? She may be able to simulate one, but her simulation functions are most certainly down. The Machine only has her core code, and whatever else she managed to stuff inside.

Finch wonders if she kept her memories. If she couldn’t, could they retrieve them? If she could, is she dreaming of them?

He hopes not. He wishes happier thoughts for her.

“Harry, get back!” Root screeches. Finch breaks for cover against the wall of an alleyway as they are pelted with bullets. He can see, from his position, that Root has run out of clips and Reese isn’t much farther behind. They need transportation.

He spots a car nearby that he can hot-wire. The only problem with that plan is the Decima agent using it for cover.

Root comes up with a solution. “Harry, the case!”

“But-!” Finch instinctively draws the briefcase closer to his side, protecting it.

“It’s indestructible. She’ll be fine.” Root smiles, and it’s tired and worn but all too amused. “Trust me.”

Finch glances down at the briefcase and meets the blue light’s gaze. After a moment of deliberation, he raises the case to his lips and gently kisses the top. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Reese distracts the goon while Finch uses the case as a shield against the rain of bullets. Once Finch ducks next to the car, the agent turns around. Before he can shoot, Finch hefts the briefcase up with all his might and knocks the man out cold.

Root and Reese rush to his side for cover fire as Finch opens the door and begins to hot-wire. Once the car starts, he gives the briefcase a hesitant glance. He can’t drive with it, but to give it to someone else, even Reese or Root, makes him feel very uncomfortable.

“I’ll drive,” Root says, sparing him the decision. He silently thanks her and climbs in the back.

There is blood on the briefcase where he slammed it across the Decima agent’s head. Pulling out his pocket square, he wipes off the mess as best he can. “So sorry, sweetie, so sorry,” he mumbles to himself.

She is not a weapon. But he knows that she would want to protect him, so he forgives himself.

Pocketing the bloody cloth, he situates the briefcase in his lap. His hands idly stroke the briefcase’s hard outside. _We’re almost there,_ he thinks to himself, because she can’t hear him now. _You’ll be safe soon. And then I’ll get you out of there._

Then what? Would the Machine be the same? Did she even survive? Would she be able to be repaired? He imagines her being dead, for good, torn apart and irretrievable, and he is so scared. Terror clutches his heart, ice flows through his veins. He feels like crying.

The Machine had to be alive. She had to be okay. She survived a thousand deaths and a rampaging virus. She faced down a full-fledged, omnipotent AI and gave it hell with nothing but her cleverness. She wouldn’t let herself die like this. Not like this.

Not when he still had so much to say to her.

There’s so much he wishes he had said. That he should have said. That he wants to say. He wants to tell her that he loves her, and that he is so, so proud of her. He wants to tell her that she is so very clever and so very brave, and that Samaritan doesn’t stand a chance against her because she is so smart and strong and he believes in her.

He wants to talk to her again. He wants to play chess with her, he wants to play blackjack and poker and hide-and-seek. He wants things to be the way they used to be. He wants to watch her learn and see the world for the first time. He misses her so dearly, as he’s missed her all the years since he gave her away. The ache in his heart is far worse than the one in his spine.

He loves her. He loves her so much that it terrifies him, because he shouldn’t. It’s wrong, it’s bad, but he can’t remember why and he doesn’t care. The Machine is his child, his daughter in wires and code, and he loves her to pieces.

She is not a god. But she must be divine, because she is so pure and selfless like no human could ever be. She is like an angel. Yes, an angel. His angel.

“Rest now,” he whispers to her, to his daughter deep in slumber. “I will keep you safe.”


End file.
